Quite a Few Observations
by Snow-is-lovely
Summary: In which a war rages, motivations are explored, and Jasper helps Monty set up a betting pool.


I.

Octavia notices first.

It's subtle, she grants him that, so much that she actually stops shelling nuts for a full minute, leaning on the rickety wooden table littered with scraps as she bites the inside of her cheek. She assumes it has to do with the surprise—and who could blame her, really?—but she also has to admit that she's a little disappointed in herself for not seeing it earlier. He's her _brother_, damn it. These are things she should just _know_, as easily as she does the color of the sky and the smell of damp grass after a thunderstorm.

She feels something brush her shoulder, just the breath of a whisper, and Octavia snaps her head up.

"Are you all right?" Jasper asks, and she can't help but notice how tight his grip is on his gun, the tension in his stance. She finds herself searching for the adorable, slightly dorky boy who had saved her from a man-eating snake that first day on Earth before realizing that someone else stands in his place now: a hardened, broken man who's scared out of his mind.

_We all are_, Octavia reminds herself. Frightened of their very shadows.

"Yeah," she says anyway, and she gives him a smile that's becoming harder and harder to conjure up, because somehow, irrationally, she thinks it will make him feel better. "Just taking a break."

Jasper smiles back, ever so briefly, and the instant he starts to leave, she returns her gaze to where Bell is standing on the opposite end of camp, pointing out what Octavia assumes is their defenses. Clarke is next to him, occasionally nodding, but mostly merely listening.

Octavia wonders if Clarke is aware of the way the corners of Bellamy's mouth are turned up into a small smile, how his line of sight never quite leaves her. She wonders if Bellamy knows.

Her brother might be an arrogant ass, but Clarke's kind of self-righteous, and Octavia thinks they balance one another other out. He's her reality check, and she reminds him that morals do matter, at least some of the time. More than anything, Octavia wants Bell to be happy. And, well, if she gets a little more freedom in the meantime, she can't really say it would be that much of a loss.

That's when her fingers slip and she lets out a hiss of pain, because there's a long, winding scratch on her palm where it caught on a piece of metal, and a pool of blood is already beginning to form at her feet.

Despite it all, Octavia grins.

Looks like she's paying Clarke a visit.

Monty walks her to the drop ship even though Octavia assures him it's just a small gash, and he offers her a swig of his moonshine on the way, which she takes with absolutely no hesitation. It burns down her throat, and she thinks that if people could drink fire, this would be it: all scorching and gritty, leaving a chalky, distinctly burnt taste on her tongue.

Monty, Octavia firmly believes, is sort of awesome.

Clarke is tending to another patient when they finally get there. Injuries are common in the camp, and the risk of infection is high, so bottles of moonshine line the walls for sterilization. Octavia doesn't know how Monty has time to do anything else but brew more batches between that and its preferred recreational use, but he's leaving before she can ask.

"Bellamy isn't going to be happy," is the first thing Clarke says when she begins to examine the wound.

Octavia rolls her eyes, squirming a little on the cold metal she's sitting on. "Is he ever?"

Clarke smiles at that. "You have a point."

"I cut myself with a piece of metal," she says dryly. "No one attacked me. Bell won't freak out. He's gotten…better about that, I guess. Not great, but you know, there's always room for improvement." She pauses, and hoping it won't come off too awkward—or God forbid, _obvious_—she goes on, "I'm glad you guys are on better terms. Everyone is, honestly."

Clarke frowns for a moment, and Octavia can see all the possible responses running through her mind. She even thinks Clarke is going to deny it for a second, but then she nods tightly.

"Me, too."

Clarke finishes wrapping the bits of cloth they've begun using as bandages, and Octavia chews on her lip as she watches.

"Thank you," she says, and she isn't sure if it's for fixing the scratch or, however unwillingly, Clarke has begun to rub off on her brother.

"No problem," Clarke replies, and maybe it's not for the reasons Octavia wants them to be, but she suddenly seems preoccupied, not all there.

There's no need to push this, because even Octavia knows that there's a chance this is all in her head and Bellamy simply respects a girl who knows how to get things done. But there's every bit as much a possibility that this is _real_, and she wants that for him.

Because sometimes Octavia passes the graves on the far side of the camp, and she feels her throat closing up. She pictures her body, limp and lifeless, buried in one of those plots of dirt, and it's not necessarily that she's terrified of spears or pain or dying; she's afraid that if she does die, Bellamy will shatter so completely he'll never become whole again, and that breaks her more than anything else.

She needs him to need someone other than her so, so badly, because she isn't blind to the threat that hangs over their heads every single day.

_Your sister. Your responsibility._

Even when Octavia hates her mother, she still loves her so fiercely it almost doesn't matter.

_Almost_.

Because whatever else, she loves her brother more.

II.

It strikes Raven next.

She supposes that happens whenever you screw people because you feel like shit and hope that maybe, just maybe, it'll make you feel better about the fact that the one person you had spent your entire life relying on doesn't really give a crap (news flash: it doesn't). So that's _how_ she finds herself paying attention to Bellamy, even if the _incident_, as she's dubbed it, didn't mean anything.

It's perfectly innocent, too, the moment the realization that Bellamy might actually _care_ about someone other than Octavia hits. It's evening and Raven is sitting on a log near the bonfire, picking at a piece of meat and staring at the stars. It's dark and pleasantly warm and when she inhales, the smoke grates against her lungs like sandpaper, but she doesn't move. She ought to be talking to someone, showing Finn that losing him doesn't hurt like hell, but she can be strong tomorrow. Tonight, she just wants to be by herself and grieve.

The trouble is, Raven can't find it within herself to blame Clarke, but being friends with her would bring an entirely new level of complication that she doesn't think she can handle. She needs to be building bullets, weapons they can use against the Grounders, not wallowing after a break-up, but to her relief, Clarke and Finn don't look as if they're talking any more than usual. Clarke has been working nonstop in the makeshift infirmary they've made in the drop ship, and when she finally stumbles out, Raven can see that she looks utterly exhausted. Raven is about to rise and offer Clarke some food when Bellamy arrives with a stick of meat and cup of Monty's moonshine.

She's too far away to hear what they say, but she catches Bellamy's smile clearly. She can see the instant that the tension in Clarke's shoulders melts away as she accepts the meal, the small smile she offers in return. Bellamy's hand on her shoulder is quick, steadying, and doesn't linger any longer than it has to, but all the same, it's disconcerting to see them so comfortable with one another. Raven can't remember when it happened.

Something twists in her heart, and she realizes it's jealousy. Not because of Bellamy or even Finn, but because she doesn't think she's ever had anyone look at her like that. It's as if the entire solar system orbits around her, like she'd made him believe in some sort of higher power or they'd found enough bombs to completely wipe the Grounders out. Like she—Clarke—was a bit of a miracle.

It's the next day and Bellamy's just come off of watch when he ducks into Raven's tent, where she's trying to figure out how to tune the radio to a better frequency.

"I need another batch of bullets. Think you can do that?" he says, and she wants to wince at his curt tone. Instead, she glares.

"Get someone else. Radio's important if we want to contact the Ark," Raven replies.

"Doesn't matter if the Grounders kill us first," he tells her. "Bullets. If you can't, get someone else to do it. As long as we get more ammo."

She nods, and the tent flap has almost closed when she calls, "Wait!"

Raven isn't sure why she said that, and what's worse is that now she regrets saying anything at all as she meets his expectant stare.

"Clarke wanted to get some herbs for medicine in the forest. You should talk to her about that."

Maybe she wants to get back at Finn, or perhaps she's gone insane and thinks that this Clarke thing is just a phase and once Finn gets over it, everything between them would go back to normal. It isn't possible, because he isn't the same person she fell in love with, she can see that now, but Raven holds onto that ridiculous hope nonetheless. Maybe she thinks that Bellamy should at least get some shot at happiness if it isn't possible for herself, but whatever the reason, she's genuinely happy when Bellamy nods.

"All right, thanks," he tells her as he gets to his feet. He pauses when he's halfway out, and she stiffens when she hears him say, "Good work. Really. We all owe you a lot. I hope you know that."

And Raven _is_ needed, she understands that, but not in the way she longs to be. Because of her skills and her brain and her ability to fix nearly anything, not because of her sense of humor or her reckless ability to have fun. She's valuable, not wanted.

Those, she figures, are two very different things.

III.

Finn realizes it then.

Maybe that isn't the right word. He knew it was there, when Clarke told him that she trusted Bellamy, when they brought the guns back to camp and threw any chance they had at peace with the Grounders out the window. But he never really grasped how deep that trust, that _reliance_, ran, and that, he thinks, is why the Clarke he knows now and the person she was before Charlotte and Raven and the bitterness of war can no longer co-exist in the same universe.

She's distant now. Finn doesn't think it's intentional, but even if it was, he can see that they're growing apart regardless. He's in love with her—he told her so, after he killed someone and Lincoln's very probable death, and he can still remember how she just sat there, bloodied and exhausted and so beautiful it almost hurt to look at. Finn doesn't think he'll ever forget the shape of her mouth, her unwavering expression when she told him he'd broken her heart. The words felt like a slap in the face, because he knows it's true, but he doesn't know whether she still wants him around or if there will ever be a chance for him, for _them_, again.

He's the only person Raven ever had, and he realizes now how dangerous that was. They formed attachments to one another when they were ten and he split his rations with her so she didn't starve because her mother couldn't be bothered, pushed her to become the very best mechanic she could be, the youngest in fifty-two years. Eventually, the progression to a romantic relationship seemed natural, logical, because if Finn is being honest, he never really had anyone other than Raven and his family, either.

They could've been happy, before spacewalks and oxygen deprivation and Finn knew what it was to be so in love it blinded all rational thought. That's the most awful thing, because he doesn't know how to tell Raven that he still wants to be friends without blurring the lines, and he doesn't think he can bear being only that with Clarke.

But the Clarke he sees Bellamy teaching how to shoot a gun and the one that lets others be tortured isn't the same girl he spent the night with at the art supply store. She tempers Bellamy, and Finn knows that's needed, but she's also starting to agree with him more and more, no matter how much Finn tries to tell her that violence shouldn't be the answer when peace might still be a viable solution. There isn't room for optimism, for his talk of treaties and understanding, not when people are dying and they're being swallowed up into a war.

_Who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things._

Clarke has told him that on multiple occasions, when he doesn't agree with her and Bellamy's decision, accompanied with a deft tilt to her chin that signals the end of the conversation.

But the instant he understands that whatever he and Clarke had is gone for good is the night after Raven broke up with him, and Finn sees Raven sitting by herself near the fire. He wants to go over to her, apologize again, but by now the flames are growing dim and she's walking towards her tent. He decides to leave, too, because it's getting colder and his head is starting to pound like it does when he's tired. A flash of blonde hair catches his eye, and he finds himself staring at Clarke, the way her head rests on Bellamy's shoulder as she throws something at Monty while Octavia laughs in the haze of early evening.

She's smiling. Grinning, really, content in a way Finn never sees anymore. She's under such pressure to keep everyone alive that he didn't think she remembered how to have fun, how to sit and drink and laugh at bad jokes. He hasn't seen her like that in a while, and the tentative way her fingers are splayed near Bellamy's don't escape his attention.

Finn grabs a bottle of moonshine and thinks that maybe if he just ignores it, later, it won't hurt quite as much.

IV.

Jasper has no such eureka moment.

It's gradual, and like any change that takes place over a period of time, it makes sense. Clarke and Bellamy became the pseudo-parents for the camp, and seeing that relationship manifest in more than just leadership is not only largely approved of, but also weirdly expected.

Jasper thinks that if Bellamy ever found out he and Monty had a betting pool going for when her and Clarke were _finally_ going to get together, they'd probably be on latrine duty for a week.

It's difficult now to find one of them without the other at camp when Clarke isn't on medic duty and Bellamy isn't on a hunting trip or with Octavia. And that's another thing—Jasper has given up on what Monty once dubbed his crusade to "get the girl", and they're something approaching friends now. Lincoln is gone, most likely dead, and Jasper doesn't push her. They eat together at meals, play drinking games in the evenings sometimes, and for him, that's enough.

There is a war to fight, after all, bombs to build and walls to fortify and ammunition to make. It's blood and dirt and fear and loss, but through it, he's made bonds that have been cemented into place and met people he wouldn't trade for anything. Earth is both the best and possibly the worst thing that could've happened to any of them; every now and again, Jasper wonders whether being floated would've been easier than all of this dull, constant terror, but then Monty will grin and Octavia will shout something absolutely crazy, and all will feel right in the world again.

It's such a small one, too. Some tents and walls and the forest beyond, filled with teeth and claws and radiation-soaked trees. The Ark must've been bigger. It was definitely safer, at any rate, not to mention the convenience of indoor plumbing. For all of its rules and rations, Jasper misses it. Not the stale air or the small, claustrophobic rooms that functioned as apartments, but the feeling of not being responsible for every misstep. On the ground, he'd been forced to grow up in a way a looming execution hadn't.

He stumbles into his tent later that evening, chucks a blanket at Monty, and he doesn't so much fall asleep as he does crash into it.

Later, he wakes to the soft sound of rain.

V.

Clarke thinks Bellamy is kind of insane.

It's when she comes back after being held captive by the Grounders and he wants to fight an entire army that she screams it at him.

Because _God_, she can't lose any of them. Not now.

She also can't lose him, and it isn't because she's in love him with him—it's been twenty days, damn it, she hasn't even _liked_ him for half that long—but because she needs him. To hold this mess of a camp together, to help her keep everyone alive.

And over on the opposite end of camp, Raven is dying from a bullet to the abdomen, and Clarke _can't fix her._

He doesn't say it's all right. It won't be, she knows that already, but what surprises her most is when he nods. He's become something of her other half, in the least romantic sense possible, and even if he can't fix anything, it's enough to know she's not alone.

"We'll get through it, Princess," Bellamy says, and then, so quickly she almost misses it, he smiles. "Let's kick some Grounder ass."

She's in the middle of a freaking war and it's crushing her into bits.

"Okay," she says, and Clarke turns to pick up a gun.

AN: Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are very appreciated and I'll take any prompts through PMs or reviews!


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